


Quiet in the Library

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Lifted Characters, Anal Fingering, Butch/Femme, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Vaginal Fingering, honestly this is so pwp you can't tell but i promise they're not ten, or possibly a nothing-terrible-ever-happened au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 03:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9800105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: “There you are!” she gasps in exasperation. “Where in the Seven Kingdoms have you been, Septa Mordane is looking for you–”But then Arya presses a finger over her lips and Sansa falls silent in a second. She wishes she didn't know why.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely pointless, and mostly exists because I wanted to see if I was physically capable of writing a sex scene where everyone doesn't talk constantly.

Sansa's eyes start to glaze over as she reads the eight verse of the second passage of the Book of the Maiden for the third time. She knows she should be paying attention, but she's exhausted and Septa Mordane isn't here to keep her on track, having gone off to search for Arya. Unwittingly, Sansa feels the scratches and bruises across her thighs sting in a gentle reminder, but no, she's going to be good, she's going to learn from the Seven-Pointed Star like her mother would want. No matter how boring, or guilt-inducing, it might be. _The Book of the Maiden. Of_ course _it's the Book of the Maiden._

Her eyes skimp over the verse a fourth time, hoping she might remember a fourth word this time as well. However she only gets about halfway through when she hears a knock on the window, and looks up.

“There you are!” she gasps in exasperation. “Where in the Seven Kingdoms have you been, Septa Mordane is looking for you–”

But then Arya presses a finger over her lips and Sansa falls silent in a second. She wishes she didn't know why.

Arya grins at her as she climbs through the window and into the library, plait keeping her hair back half-undone and dirt smeared across her face, like she was ten years old again. She's wearing boy's clothes, and Sansa doesn't even know where she gets them although she thinks Jon might be to blame, or possibly Bran, but Arya smells of sweat and and hay and maybe even ale and Sansa doesn't know what she's been up to, probably out practising archery with the boys, or wrestling with the stablehands, or maybe even drinking in Winter Town. Sansa hates the heat that swells in her gut and between her legs when she sees Arya like that, equal parts lust and jealousy. She doesn't know where Arya goes when she sneaks off, she doesn't know if there's anything to be jealous of, but she knows she shouldn't be jealous at all.

She knows Arya can see the look on her face; Arya's always been able to read her like a book, far more easily than Sansa can read the book in front of her, and Sansa's eyes dart around the library in a panic as Arya prowls over to her. _Septa Mordane could come back any moment now,_ but as Arya looms above her, leaning in close enough to kiss, Sansa merely tilts her head up, closes her eyes and parts her lips, hating herself for it all the while.

Sansa's surprised when, despite a hand – smeared with dirt and with ragged fingernails, but still with a lady's softness – cradling under her chin, she doesn't get her kiss. She hears a thud and opens her eyes, for a second thinking Arya's disappeared, but then she looks down and finds her sister crawling under the table, looking up with fire in her eyes.

“Arya–” but then Arya presses her finger over her lips again and Sansa's words are stolen once more. She says nothing, merely bites her lip as Arya starts to push the hem of her skirts up. She can't even pretend she doesn't want it. She used to, when this first began, after a childish wrestling match that somehow devolved into... something else (Arya had slighted her honour, claimed the only reason she was so obsessed with knights and ladies and her future husband and wedding was because she didn't want to admit what she really wanted was her wedding _night_. In hindsight, Sansa doesn't feel like she disproved the accusation very effectively). But it's been going on too long for Sansa to try and trick herself into thinking it's anything other than what it is. Not that they've ever spoken about what it is. Not that they've ever spoken about it at all; Sansa can't bring herself to, so she just lets Arya do what she will with her, helpless to resist, and afterwards pretends it never happened. She should agree to marry some man so she can move away, put an end to this madness, but she can't bring herself to do that either.

She bites her lip so as not to groan as Arya roughly pushes her skirt up to her waist. Arya doesn't make a noise, but Sansa can feel her snickering against her thigh as she sees all the marks she's left across Sansa's skin – and rather annoyed, Sansa reaches down and pulls Arya's hair in revenge. Arya makes a perturbed noise, and then bites over one of the darkest bruises, making Sansa gasp and bite her lip. Panicking, Sansa's eyes dart around, terrified someone will see them, hear them. Arya shows no such fear, greedily grabbing Sansa's underthings and pulling them down to her ankles.

Unwittingly, Sansa lifts her hips to let her. She's already so wet, she can smell herself in the air, mixing with the scent of dust and candlewax. _Do I like it when she does things like this? Things so stupid, so dangerous?_ She doesn't get time to answer the question before Arya fixes her mouth over her wet centre, and Sansa has to dig her nails into the wooden desk not to cry out.

Arya's good with her mouth, damn her, she always has been, and she's either too impatient or too practical to tease now – she eats Sansa's cunny hard and fast, tongue swirling over her nub before it pushes into her hole, fucking her with it a few times before moving back, leaving Sansa shuddering and squirming in her seat. If someone saw her now, surely they'd know what was happening, especially when she throws her head back so her red curls bounce against and tangle around the back of her chair, but still, she keeps her lips pressed tight together and does not let herself call Arya's name. Although that might be for her pride's sake as much as anything.

She wonders if Arya is going to touch herself beneath the table, but no, those men's breeches would probably be too hard to open, so Arya's hands remain on Sansa's thighs, spreading them wide as if Sansa wasn't doing that already. Then one lets go, and Sansa knows what's coming, which is good because of course Arya doesn't warn her, she just slides three fingers straight into Sansa and leaves her to bite her tongue at the shock and sudden rush of pleasure.

It hurts at first, and Sansa stubbornly refuses to believe she actually enjoys that, but before long Arya's fingers are twisting and crooking in her so _right_ , they're not even clean and if Sansa falls ill she'll make Arya attend to her every whim in retribution, but she's spread so wide and she hates how much she enjoys it, how much she wants her sister to ruin her. _Arya is no man, I am still a maid,_ but compared to the fact her own sister is kissing and fingering her cunt under the table in the middle of the library, while Sansa reads the Seven-Pointed Star and their septa could come back any second, it seems a weak defense.

Arya's lips fix around Sansa's pink nub, hard, and she sucks and sucks and _sucks_ until Sansa must strike the table as she thrusts hopelessly against Arya's face so she won't wail aloud. Then the third of Arya's fingers pulls out, and Sansa cannot tell if the whimper that escapes her is more relief or disappointment, but she finds her hips lifting once more, and then Arya pushes her wetted finger straight into Sansa's _other_ hole and Sansa chokes on her breath because _oh_ , she loves that, and she hates that she loves it, and she hates that Arya _knows_ she loves it, and then she's biting her hand so as not to scream as she peaks, pressing her knees into Arya's neck as she keens for _more, more, more._

She could swear Arya is laughing at her as she finishes her off, lapping the wetness off Sansa's sensitive folds. When she pulls her fingers out she dries them on the hem of Sansa's dress, which makes her scowl, because that's her blue velvet and now she's going to have to find a puddle to walk through so no-one will notice, but _then_ Arya's pulling her underthings off her ankle and tucking them into the pocket of her breeches, and _hang on_.

Sansa makes a noise of protest, but before she can say anything about it Arya is back up off her knees, and how does she _move_ like that, but she's grinning and pulling Sansa in for a kiss. Sansa leans in, helpless, hopeless, moaning against her sister's mouth and there's no way out from here, is there?

It's not long enough; Sansa whines, then flushes with embarrassment, as Arya breaks away. Lips still wet, Arya smirks and pushes her finger to them once more, then climbs back out the window.

“Well, I can't find her anywhere.” Sansa jumps a mile when she hears another voice; she turns her head and sees Septa Mordane re-entering the room, and starts hurriedly trying to smooth her hair and hide her blush. “You haven't heard her running about, causing trouble from here, have you?”

Sansa's face turns red again. “N-no,” she stutters, and really, if she's going to do this – this _thing_ with Arya, she ought to practice being a better liar. Although she might not technically be lying.

Septa Mordane gives her a funny look for a second, which does not do Sansa's nerves any favours, but then she sighs. “Very well. You're a good girl Sansa, and I believe you.” Sansa blushes even deeper at that, and the septa frowns. “Are you feeling alright? You're bright red.”

Sansa darts out of the way as Septa Mordane extends a hand to feel her forehead. “Uh, no, actually,” she says. “I think I might be coming down with a fever. I should probably go lie down. Sorry.”

And then she runs off, hoping no-one will notice the stain upon her hem, feeling the sting and wetness on her nethers. She swears, she will find some excuse, some stupid thing she can be 'officially' mad about, and then she will scream Arya's head off for this.

 


End file.
